


Times Change, But We Do Not

by thethinkingfruit



Series: The Tales of Warden Bralinden Aeducan [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Childbirth, Children, Comfort, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Exasperated midwives, Exhaustion, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, King Alistair, Light Angst, Massage, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Party, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Slow Dancing, Suggestive Themes, Surprises, Traveling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethinkingfruit/pseuds/thethinkingfruit
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots for 2017'sZevran/Warden Weekover on Tumblr, featuring my Hero of Ferelden/Warden Commander Bralinden Aeducan. All credit to the themes goes tozevranology!





	1. Muscles of Iron, Bones of Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check out more about my warden, [Bralinden Aeducan, in her tag on my tumblr!](http://thethinkingfruit.tumblr.com/tagged/bralinden%20aeducan) It is small, but it is growing. Other than that, enjoy! Comments and kudos are appreciated, and if you think things need to be added to the tags, please let me know!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief Summary: Despite being apart for weeks, the Warden Commander still continues to work while Zevran’s come to visit Vigil’s Keep. He attempts to persuade her otherwise.
> 
> Prompt: Massage

                Bralinden heard the door open and close behind her and footsteps on the chilled stone floors. She glanced to the side as a familiar shadow appeared on the wall, illuminated by the candles that were dimming. Hands playfully danced across Bralinden’s shoulders, trying to push the shoulders of her loose-fitting nightgown as she sat at her desk, pouring over papers. Bralinden couldn’t tell what they were anymore, in the end, and welcomed the distraction for a moment in the form of Zevran’s sweet voice and gentle touches. “I swear, mi amor, your muscles are like iron.”

                Bralinden grunted, rolling her shoulders and gently knocking Zevran’s hands away with her quill, trying to mask a smile. “They have to be. My armor is heavier than iron, as is my shield, and my sword. Born underground with iron in my veins.”

                “And a kingdom on your back,” Zevran replied, kissing her temple. “I know. You can’t seem to get rid of the kingdom, can you? Shed Orzamar for Ferelden, it seems.” Zevran paused, and reached past her to pluck a piece of paper from the stacks. “Are you aware that you’re reading one of Wynne’s baking recipes?”

                “She sent me one of the recipes I was asking for?” Bralinden asked. She tried to grab it. “I hadn’t even seen it! I hope it’s the bread pudding.”

                Zevran tutted, pulling it out of her reach and setting it down among the chaos of parchment. “Darling, you’ve been at work for hours! I’m only in Amaranthine for a short time, you know…we can’t spend it all in this drafty study of yours. Between you showing off this lovely summer home and the recruits that you’ve trained by hand, and all this paperwork, I’m starting to feel like you don’t like me anymore!” He sat on the desk and pushed some papers aside, messing up Bralinden’s haphazard organization. “I could give you a proper massage, if you would let me. You know I give some of the best…”

                Bralinden huffed and tried to be annoyed, but all she managed was blow some bangs out of her face for them to land back on her cheek. Zevran reached out and brushed it from her face, coy and teasing. Then his expression faltered, as he drew the pad of his thumb across her cheek.

                “You look so tired, Bralinden. You’re starting to go grey.”

                “Ah, I knew it. You weren’t with me because of my gorgeous looks.” She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes for a moment.

                “No, I meant—Bralinden, all these responsibilities. They are not for one to bear alone. The Warden Commander of the Grey, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Chancellor to King Alistar Therin of Ferelden. Each job is more than enough for one person, yet you try to handle three.”

                “What can I say?” Bralinden sighed. “I’m an overachiever. But I will always find time for you, my love.” She pulled Zevran off the desk and into her lap. He laughed and kissed her forehead, then her nose, her cheeks, then her lips. Bralinden reciprocated on the last one, before she sighed and buried her face in his nightshirt. He was warm and inviting, easily wrapping his arms around her as she sighed yet again.

                “You have a funny way of showing it,” he teased.

                Bralinden looked up at him, chin resting on his chest. “Fine, fine. Tomorrow—all of tomorrow—it’ll just be us. No paperwork, no Grey Warden business, no Chancellor of Ferelden duties. Just us. I promise.”

                “I expect the grandest treatment,” Zevran replied sarcastically, but he seemed pleased at her decision. He gently framed her face in his hands, and kissed her again. “But, before you make sure that tomorrow is one of the best days of our lives, let us start it off right by making sure that you are relaxed, and in your best shape.” His hands wandered down, rubbing her neck and shoulders. “Come on. Bed. I’ll make sure to relax you.”

* * *

With a spring in his step, Zevran led Bralinden from her study and to her bedroom one door over. He had not meant to distract her from her work too much. He had arrived unannounced, coming post-haste after hearing the whole debacle with the two separate sides of Darkspawn. He didn’t mind watching Bralinden work, whether it was training the newest recruits or writing strongly worded letters to nobles, merchants, or other important individuals.

                But what concerned him was how tired Braliden looked. Her reflexes were sluggish, her mind constantly elsewhere, thinking about the next step, never letting her mind settle on the present.

                So, Zevran settled Bralinden into her four poster bed. He had been preparing, with candles lit throughout the room, and sweet fragrances imported from Orlais drifting through the air. He even found flowers this time of year, and sprinkled them on the floor in a path to the bed, saving the nicest looking petals to rest upon the sheets.

                Bralinden paused at the door, jaw dropping for a moment. Zevran chuckled, and led her in. “How did you do all of this without me hearing you?” she asked, gazing about. “I was just in here an hour ago to change for bed.”

                “I improvised! And you must admit, I have always had the talent for sneaking about. Now, if you would please…” He gently tugged at her nightgown. “Let’s make sure that you’re absolutely relaxed. You deserve that much, my love.”

                He could practically feel Bralinden roll her eyes at him as she stepped towards the bed, but she started to undo the braid in her hair, and shrugged off her nightgown, letting it drop into a puddle on the floor before she crawled onto the bed. Zevran sucked in a breath, admiring the view for a moment. She had gotten more scars since he had last seen her, one delicately curling down her side. Tinier ones littered her skin, a story behind each one. The most prominent, one above her heart, made Zevran’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

                The fear went away though when Bralinden glanced over her shoulder shyly, and smiled. “Are you joining me?”

                “Of course,” he replied, and hurried across the room with much more enthusiasm. Bralinden laid down for him, hugging a pillow, and Zevran sat down next to her. “I promise, this will be the best massage of your life.”

                Zevran got to work getting the knots out of Bralinden’s shoulders and back. He coated his hands with a sweet scented oil, and felt Bralinden begin to relax underneath his touch. She sighed happily, and glanced over her shoulder at him. He smiled, and she smiled back.

                “Tell me of your adventures,” Bralinden muttered. “The newest ones. It’ll help me relax.”

                “Will it, now?”

                “Yes. That way I know what you were up to. I can add people who tried to hurt you to my hit list.”

                “Oh, so charming. I took down their names and descriptions, just for you. But yes, I will tell you of my adventures. How about we start at the beginning. While we were traveling across the Waking Sea and to the Amaranthine Ocean, a curious thing occurred…” Zevran kept his voice low and soft so Bralinden would focus on his tone, and not the actual daring adventures that he took part in without her watching his back. She occasionally weighed in, her voice growing softer and softer as his stories trailed on. Some time passed until he asked, “So, do you know what I said, my love?”

                He was met with silence. Zevran blinked.

                “Bralinden?”

                He was met with soft snoring.

                Zevran, bemused, flopped onto the mattress next to Bralinden. She hugged the pillow like a lifeline, eyes shut, face relaxed, and fast asleep. Zevran sighed but couldn’t blame her, as he grabbed a blanket and gently tugged up around her. He hurried about the room, putting out the candles and incense. Once he was done, he stripped, and moved his pillow so he was next to her. She muttered something and instantly nuzzled closer to him, forgoing the pillow to sleep with him as her comfort.

                “Goodnight, my love,” he whispered. He kissed her forehead. “We will celebrate more tomorrow.”


	2. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Warden goes, Zevran goes, as do the rest of their family. However, Bralinden always brings baggage, even in the calmest of places.
> 
> Tuesday, August 1: Domestic

“You know, I didn’t think I’d actually get this far. To retirement, I mean, if you can call this that. Not literally. We’ve walked a lot before, y’know.”

                Zevran tried to mask a frown as Bralinden stepped past a large rock, using her sword as a makeshift walking stick. From her back, their youngest son gurgled, large floppy hat knocked loose as his mother jostled back and forth to successfully make it through this particularly difficult pass. Zevran would help her, if he wasn’t so busy leading their Bronto, Griffon, up the narrow road. The poor Bronto was preoccupied with Zevran and Bralinden’s twins, who were currently fussing over Partha, the wise old Mabari that once traveled Ferelden with them. The hound had put on a bit of weight but could keep up easy with their slow moving party.

                “I don’t know, my love. I think we’re doing an excellent job with retirement. You’ve successfully managed to let the Grey Wardens continue onwards, no longer having to deal with being Warden Commander. Just as well, Vigil’s Keep was incredibly drafty and bad for your health. You’ve appointed vice Chancellors to help out Alistair back in Ferelden and he’s doing just fine as King. We are finally seeing the world together, as you’ve wished it.”

                “Yeah,” Bralinden replied before she sat down at the top of the hill. Zevran let Griffon’s reigns go and made his way to sit next to her. The Bronto could make his way up the hill with the twin’s and Partha’s help. “Still. Never pictured it like this.”

                “Trekking across the west? The smell of Bronto shit? The horrible, horrible sun, who will never be able to successfully obtain my forgiveness for the fact that it has burnt everyone, even with our necessary precautions? The sand?”

                “Yes, yes, all of that. But mostly feeling so terrible was unexpected.” Bralinden started to cough, and she rubbed at her bottom lip, next, all too quickly. “We should make camp for the night.”

                Zevran went quiet as Bralinden wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She had changed over the past decade. Her hair still had some luster, but it was streaked with grey. After a mishap with an assassin in Orlais, she shaved the right side of her head to the scalp. Her eye was scarred and sometimes she had a hard time seeing out of it when the light was bad. Her skin had started to take on a sickly sheen maybe a year ago, and heavy creases lined her brow, almost as prominent as her laugh lines around her eyes.

                _Twenty years, give or take,_ Bralinden had said.

                Together, they had lost themselves in about half of the time Bralinden was promised. Lots of paperwork. Lots of hitting people with swords, shields, daggers. Lots of yelling. Lots of failed assassination attempts. A lot of actual assassination attempts. Lots of love.

                “Camping would be good, yes,” Zevran replied, forcing positivity. “My feet are not used to all this walking and I’m sure the children are getting restless.”

                They set up their tent underneath a rock outcropping, and got a fire going. Partha happily curled up on the first bedroll that’s pulled out. The twins start getting together dinner. Six years old and they’ve already learned well, with Zevran surveying and helping when they needed it. In truth, it was more like he cooked and they supervised, but he let them help peel some of the potatoes and check the meat, teaching them how to tell when it was done. Bralinden put their youngest in his baby basket, giggling and kissing his little feet before feeding him a little bit of baby food she had made the night before, and let it set. Griffin happily settled down as far under the outcropping as best he could.

                Zevran hadn’t realized he was staring until his elder son nudged him. “Papa? What are you looking at?”

                Zevran blinked. He had been watching Bralinden, whose smile had faded. She looked exhausted again. Her eyes looked empty, and tired.

                “It’s nothing, my dear,” he replied. “Get the plates. I’ll go check on your mother.”

                Zevran crossed the outcropping and settled next to Bralinden, who finished feeding the baby. Zevran wrapped his arms around her.

                “The food’s almost done, and then you get some rest,” he muttered. “I’ll watch after the little ones and take first watch. Last we need is some weird desert drake sneaking up on us.”

                Bralinden let out a breath she was holding and nodded, giving him a rare smile. There were so few those days, it seemed. “Nothing will get past you, I’m sure. Wake me up when it’s my turn though. Promise me.”

                “Of course.”

* * *

                After the meal, Bralinden laid down to rest. She did not sleep well, even though Zevran kept watch over their family. She could hear the call boiling in her veins, echoing in her skull, piercing even the gentlest of thoughts. If Bralinden was lucky, she would get to dream of home. Of Orzammar, of Denerim, of Vigil’s Keep, but they were marred and ruined, soiled by the Darkspawn’s festering touch. What would start off sweetly would always descend into chaos and ruin. Bralinden began to dread closing her eyes more and more, but she did so for her husband’s sake.

                This time, she dreamt of a place she had never seen.

                The cottage was smaller than any home Bralinden had lived in, but in her bones Bralinden knew this place was hers, and hers alone. It was made of sturdy stonework, the roof above it built out of strong timbers. It sat on the edge of a field hugging a cliff side that began to creep upwards into the Frostback Mountains. There was a small garden filled with her favorite fruits and vegetables, and in the corner an apple tree bowed with golden colored fruits.

                Inside, she could hear laughing. Her children. Zevran. She was coming back from the market, carrying a basket filled with bread and spices from far off places. She had even found her family gifts. Toys, clothing, books.

                The door opened, and Darkspawn spilled out like a torrent. Bralinden reached her hand into the basket on her arm but it was no longer there. It had become a shield, and she was in armor, and the cottage was burning and she screamed a war cry, charging forward—

                Bralinden woke to darkness, the fire only low embers. She clutched at her chest and steadied her breathing, swallowing down sobs and screams. Next to her, Partha slept. She could see the forms of the twins curled up next to her on the other side. Her hand sat in the baby’s basket, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale. Her infant son, however, remained undisturbed.

                Zevran sat quietly, alone, on the edge of their camp, his silhouette the next thing she looked for. He was twirling a knife, practicing tricks, as he surveyed the dark, foreign landscape, unaware of her nightmares.

                Bralinden grabbed her blanket and rose silently. She passed by the campfire and scooted past Griffon, who snorted in his sleep. Then, she elbowed Zevran, climbing up on the rock next to him.. “Scoot over. Let me sit with you.”

                “Braliden? You should be sleeping.”

                “Couldn’t.”

                Zevran did not reply as Bralinden stretched the blanket across his shoulders so they could huddle together. She took his hand and he sighed, leaning against her. “That is too bad, my love. You looked so peaceful.”

                Bralinden snickered and looked up at the sky. She could see the moon and the stars painted overhead, and a gentle breeze rustled the little bits of foliage that dotted the horizon.

                “Well, we’ve never really done peaceful well, have we?” she replied. “This is the most peaceful it’s been in years.” She was quiet after a few moments. “I don’t like it.”

                “Peaceful has never been our style, has it?”

                She shook her head, careful not to disrupt him too much. “No. Though…” she trailed off and shut her eyes for a moment. It was a nice idea, domesticity. A little cottage somewhere on a mountain side, with a garden, where she and Zevran could spend the days just living off the land. A place for the children to play, far away from all the ruckus of the city, and politics, and death. She wondered if one day, she could see her grandchildren. “Maybe when we’re older. Much older.”

                “Old and grey and not able to do our regular jobs?” suggested Zevran.

                “Yes. And when the children don’t need looking after.”

                “And the rest of the world.”

                “Exactly.” She leaned up and kissed him. “But until then, get some rest. It’s my turn for watch.”


	3. The Perfect Dance Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bralinden and Zevran find themselves at a small party, enjoying life and each other's company.
> 
> **Theme:** Wednesday, August 2 - Fancy Dress

                    “I’m surprised that you actually want to come to one of these things. They’re not very eventful, despite what people like to think. All that happens is a bunch of nobles and rich merchants get together, complain about the quality of wine and cheese, and try to suck up to the king.”

                “And miss getting to spend time with you, looking as gorgeous as you do? I would never skip out on this.”

                The party was going swimmingly from a distance, but Bralinden could not bring herself to smile. She didn’t smile often to begin with, but watching the crowd, it was impossible not to scowl and feel nervous. Bralinden shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to adjust her skirts into a more comfortable position. They were riding up and the coarse fabric that made one of the inner skirts itched horribly. She knew she looked pretty—Alistair had tried to help her pick out a dress that was in style amongst the court—but in the end, Bralinden was painfully aware of how much she stood out amongst all the taller, human guests. Even though she wore a gorgeous blue gown with silver trim, and a warm fur cloak around her shoulders, her tattoos stood out. Her stature stood out. Everything stood out and she didn’t like it. It was bad enough in Orzammar when she sat on the council with her father. All eyes were on her and the king at one point or another, whether it was them directly staring at her, or glancing from the corner. This had not changed as she sat in on the court in Ferelden.

                At least in Orzammar, she often got to wear armor. Danger lurked even at the tamest events, so she tried to stay on guard, but it was difficult. This particular party was boring. She doubted there would be any arguments, double crossings, or even assassination attempts. This was a small party that Alistair had decided to host a party for a few of the nobles that had supported them at the Landsmeet. While a few would come talk to her, they seemed preoccupied.

                There were only one set of eyes that she wanted on her. He instead stood behind her, out of her sight, quietly vigilant.

                “I wish it didn’t itch so much,” she whispered. She kept her eyes on Alistair and the nobles, doing her best to ignore it. “Nothing against Ferelden, but they don’t really believe in comfortable materials, do they?”

                “We will have to get you Orlaisian silks. So soft to the touch, I hear. Leliana would be overjoyed if you showed interest in it, I bet. Just one letter away!” He leaned over and rested a hand on her shoulder, leaning down. “Not that you don’t look lovely as ever, my dear.”

                From her feet, Partha grumbled softly, ears perking up. Zevran chuckled and leaned over the back of the chair. He was dressed fashionably as well, Bralinden noted. His new armor was not lost on her. The beautiful black embroidered vest hid many daggers, she wagered, and the billowing sleeves almost looked like wings as he waved his hands. She didn’t think to ask how many, but it was probably best that she did not know.

                “You flatter me,” she said gently, rising from her seat. Zevran followed quickly, stepping to her side. Partha rose as well. A few people turned their heads, but since the bulk of festivities was done, they paid little mind after a while. “Walk with me? I think there are a few more songs left with the bards. I want to fetch something to drink, and then maybe a dance.” Her voice carried to a few of the nobles nearby.

                “A dance? You?” Zevran could barely mask his surprise. “You’ve never been fond of dancing in public.”

                “I’ve never been fond of dancing, period. It wasn’t particularly approved of in Orzammar—at least, with the people I wanted to dance with.” She looked up at him and smiled. “But at least I get to dance with you here. I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”

* * *

                Bralinden was breathtaking. Zevran had admitted it profusely to several people he had spoken with during the party—Alistair, a few helpless noblewoman who tried to flirt with him, a few men who tried to flirt with him, the few that were eyeing Bralinden hungrily. Bralinden seemed unaware that people were staring at her longingly. Her hair had been twisted up painfully into braids, a soft silver circlet framing her features. She wore no makeup, but her lips had a soft look that made Zevran just want to whisk her away and lavish her in love and attention.

                She was preoccupied, however. They had a job to do.

                Zevran was aware that Bralinden took the king’s safety seriously. Even though they were no longer on a literal battlefield, there were still plenty of dangers for the fledgling king and his chancellor. She eyed every guest warily and kept Alistair in sight at all times.

                So, the fact that she had offered a dance was surprising. Zevran wondered if he was dreaming as he led her to the dance floor, where a few couples twirled and enjoyed the music. Bralinden took his hands in hers and pulled him along. If she felt safe enough to dance, then Zevran decided that this party was one of the better ones that he attended.

                “Come on!” she said. “Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

                “No, no, that is not it,” Zevran replied. He placed a hand on her waist and took the other carefully. It was a little awkward, with how short Bralinden was, but they made it work. “It’s just that Ferelden music is so…”

                “Clunky?” offered Bralinden.

                “Yes,” Zevran agreed. Bralinden laughed and shook her head. “It is not bad, per say. Just not what I am accustomed to.” He looked her up and down. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

                He swore he saw a blush. Bralinden never blushed.

                “You think?” she asked.

                “Absolutely,” Zevran muttered. He leaned in and kissed her forehead as they swayed back and forth to the music. “One day, we will go to Antiva and visit a royal ball. They are different than this, but I believe that you would enjoy yourself more.”

                “Oh? Why?”

                “Well, you would not have to keep an eye out for his majesty.” He glanced to the side, where Alistair was currently entertaining a few guests with a story, and a cheese knife. “And worry about yourself. We could sneak in. Antivan galas are very exciting. It’s considered a boring affair if there is at least not one political assassination.”

                “That sounds stressful,” Bralinden replied with a frown. “Maybe not.”

                “That’s only if you wished it. If you want to limit your parties to Ferelden standards, then, that’s fine by me.”

                Bralinden sighed as Zevran pulled her into a slow twirl. Zevran pulled back and bowed. “I have to admit though…the dress truly looks wonderful.”

                “You look handsome yourself,” Bralinden quipped back. She curtsied and they both shared a small chuckle. “Dashing, even. Perhaps you should wear your fancy dressings more often.”

                 Zevran winked. “Only if you’ll do the same.” Then he sighed and gestured towards the food table. “You better go rescue Alistair. It looks as if the noblewomen are swarming him again.”

                “Oh, bother.” Bralinden whirled around, the skirt twisting with her. “I’ll be back. I want another dance.”

                “Another?” Zevran asked. He arched an eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done to my Bralinden?”

                Bralinden winked. “I’ve just found the perfect dance partner. I know you have my back,” she replied before she hiked up her skirts and hurried off. Zevran watched, a familiar warmth blooming in his chest and his cheeks, before he smiled, and decided to follow after her. Just in case she needed back up.


	4. We’ve got Such Shit Initiative Roles – A Dungeons and Dragons AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a modern setting, Zevran learns of one of Bralinden's hobbies, and elects to join her.
> 
> Theme: AU Day

Crowded around the small poker table, with half-eaten bags of chips stashed in plastic bowls and soda cans littering the floor, Bralinden and Zevran sat side by side, elbow to elbow, as the dungeon master described the latest scene that their adventuring party had stumbled into.

                Zevran wasn’t so sure what to think when Bralinden had offered for him to join her D&D group. Well, it wasn’t really hers, but she had extended the invitation after she passed up on a movie date not once, but three times each Sunday evening.

                “Are you avoiding me?” he had asked, slightly joking but also slightly serious. Bralinden had turned the brightest crimson ever and looked away. For a moment, Zevran’s heart sank.

                “No, of course not, it’s just…” she waved her hands, trailing off. “I’m busy.”

                “Busy with what?”   

                “Meeting up with some friends,” she replied. “We have a…” she trailed off, mumbling something under her breath. “A thing.”

                “A thing?” he repeated, wounded. He was not upset that Bralinden had something that she did with her friends. It was more that she was being so cryptic about it. Bralinden rarely got nervous about anything, so to see her sort of wring her hands and not make eye contact made Zevran wonder exactly what it was. “I…I understand.”

                He had sounded more morose than he had meant, but it got Bralinden’s attention. Stunned, she stopped walking, and took his hand. “No, look, I…” She trailed off before she took a deep breath. “It’s a tabletop game. Roleplaying.”

                Zevran paused before answering, making sure he heard correctly. “…You do what, my love?”

                “Roleplay. It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

                “Oh.” That wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. They stood in silence for a moment before he laughed a little, and squeezed her hand. “Why are you so nervous? That’s delightful, my love.”

                Bralinden visibly relaxed before she shyly looked away. “Oh. I suppose I was worried for nothing then.”

                “You worry a lot, my dear.” Zevran patted her back. “If you enjoy it, however, I’m not going to stop you. We will figure out a movie time some other day.”

                Bralinden nodded, and they continued their walk. A few moments later, Bralinden stopped again.

                “You wanna come with this week?” Bralinden asked. “It’s really fun.”

                And that’s how Zevran wound up rolling a character Sunday afternoon and was mushed next to Bralinden and a particularly smelly fellow named Oghren. People were in various states of dress. One or two had come from formal outings like church, while others were still in their pajamas like he and Bralinden were. It was a good sized group of people that got together. Zevran was amazed that everyone had somehow made it, schedules aligned. Even Bralinden’s pug, Partha, got in on the action by sitting in the crook of Bralinden’s lap and occasionally trying to eat the dice that got too close to the edge.

                “So,” Morrigan's mother began, a calm but slightly malevolent look on her face. Bralinden had explained Zevran that she was the dungeon master, who was less exciting than he had thought, “What do you do?”

                “Is there any cheese about?” asked Alistair.

                “All you can see is the small cellar and the door in front of you. There’s no cheese.”

                “Can we get in through the door?” asked Sten. “I check the door.”

                “You find the door locked.”

                Bralinden nudged Zevran under the table. He had gone with a rogue and was looking forward to actually partaking in the game. “I roll to pick the lock.”

                “Great, then roll a slight of hand check.”

                Zevran cupped a d20, rattled it about, and then dropped it on the table. Bralinden picked them out for her, jet black with beautiful silver numbers, from her own personal set of dice that she kept in a shoebox underneath their bed.He blinked and then furrowed his brow. Leliana snickered from behind a powdered donut she had plucked from the snack table.

                “…So I’m assuming a one is not a good role,” Zevran said.

                “No, love, it’s not,” Bralinden replied, patting his knee. “Better luck next time.”   

                “Perhaps I’ll have an easier chance seducing the door. Can I do that?”

                Flemmeth laughed from her seat at the table. “Perhaps. We’ll have to wait and see, now won’t we?”

                “I’ve got this,” Leliana replied. She dropped her dice and got a much better roll. “Door’s open.”

                “Excellent,” Shale said from her spot next to Wynne. “I’ll go in first.”

                “You walk into a trap, and take… four d6 fire damage.”

                “Shit.”

                The game continued, with several bad rolls not only from Zevran but from others as well. Bralinden would laugh every time Flemeth described what happened next after the bad rolls, something hilarious and awful, and her laughter was contagious. Her cheeks grew rosy and she had fun with her character. Miraculously, the group always managed to find their way out of it. When the evening drew to a close, and everyone was trying to figure out when they could meet next, Bralinden sighed and rested her head against Zevran’s chest, his arm slung over her shoulders.

                “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, glancing up at him.

                “Immensely. I see why you are so adamant about playing this game. It is such a worthy quest.”

                “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

                Zevran laughed and kissed her brow. “Roll an insight check.” He paused. “Or is it perception? You will have to teach me.”

                “You’re going to be making jokes like this all the time, aren’t you?” She poked his cheek before she kissed him. Somewhere from the room, he heard an over the top gagging sound from one of Bralinden’s friends (Morrigan, perhaps? Zevran was too preoccupied to look) but she cheerfully flipped them off. When she pulled back, she patted his shoulder and smiled. “C’mon. Let’s help clean up and then head home. It’s way past Partha’s bedtime.”


	5. What's Said In a Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bralinden's thought process throughout the Fifth Blight. Despite what the bards believed, there were less darkspawn on her mind, and instead her emotions regarding a certain Antivan rogue.
> 
> August 4: Character Development

                Before Zevran, Bralinden had never been a target (or even part of) a failed assassination attempt. Back home, in Orzammar, she presumed that assassinations were common, but not the kind where people actively showed up and tried to stab a dagger in her heart. There had been incidents in Orzammar when noblemen wound up dead in their beds or fell dead in a tournament after a strike hit too hard, but most of them were less literal assassinations with knives and swords.

                In Orzammar, her character had been assassinated, her honor as an Aeducan besmirched. That was the type of assassination Bralinden was used to. She wasn’t supposed to survive that assassination, banished in the deep roads, so when Bralinden found an elf lying face down in the mud after trying to kill her and her companions, Bralinden wasn’t sure to be honored or disgusted that her enemies had attempted to assassinate her, and had failed rather spectacularly.

                She was starting to wonder if the ancestors had it out for her.

                She had also contemplated killing him. It would have been easy. A sword slashed across the throat. Alistair could hold him down if he struggled, or Sten. She could’ve tied him to a tree and it would save the entire group so much worry, so they didn’t have more to stress about as they traveled across Ferelden.

                But against Bralinden’s better judgment, she offered the elf—Zevran—a hand and helped him to his feet. She offered him a job, a position of him coming with them as they attempted their morally obligated quest.

                “Don’t make me regret this,” she told him, scowling up at him. Zevran nodded, and the bastard had the audacity to smile and wink.

                “Of course not, m’lady. I am a man of honor, after all.”

                After that, Bralinden kept an eye out for him, for her sake and for that of her companion’s. It was dangerous having an assassin looming around, even if he did owe you your life.

                “You know, all that squinting must be bad for your eyesight,” Leliana said one day. Bralinden looked up at her, tearing her eyes away from Zevran for just a moment as he forged ahead with Alistair. Bralinden didn’t like how jovial the assassin was, how easily he seemed to get Alistair to laugh and joke around despite the fact that they were in extremely serious circumstances. “If you didn’t trust him, why did you have him come with us?”

                “He’s an investment,” Bralinden replied. “And possibly a good meat shield. Possibly a bargaining chip if we run into Howe or Loghain. Possibly. I don’t know.” Bralinden looked back at Zevran. He seemed to be in the middle of telling an extremely elaborate joke, complete with rude hand gestures. “And it just didn’t seem right to leave him dead on the road. There’s no honor in killing someone who’s unarmed.”

                Leliana hummed wordlessly as if she knew a secret that Bralinden didn’t. “So honorable! Never thought that I’d see that from you, with how bloodthirsty you are on the battlefield.”

                “I’m working through some things,” Bralinden replied, glaring. After a moment, Zevran looked over his shoulder and smiled. He had the audacity to wave. Bralinden grunted and looked down at her feet, carefully stepping over a large tree root so she wouldn’t fall. “But never question whether I have honor or not.”

                “Keep an open mind. Perhaps he’s not as bad as we first thought.”

                “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

                Soon, Zevran started to earn her trust. It was small things like quips on and off the battlefield, kind gestures even when everything seemed bleak. He had a good head on his shoulders, Bralinden began to realize, and it must have shown in her demeanor. The entire camp was warming up to Zevran, of course, but for someone to crack Bralinden’s cold, stony exterior caught a bit of attention. Wynne had pointed it out first, one evening in camp. Bralinden was watching Zevran from a distance, as he fussed over Partha. Despite everyone complaining about Bralinden’s hound, he seemed to take to Partha the most.

                “You have a softer look in your eye, my dear,” said Wynne. “Has something changed?”

                Bralinden paused in her polishing. Her armor took up much more upkeep now that they were fighting daily. Her fingers had been scrubbed raw but the shield shined. “What do you mean?”   

                Wynne chuckled. “Well, you no longer look like you’re trying to strangle him with just a look.”

                Bralinden scowled but Wynne was unbothered.

                “He’s been a valuable asset,” Bralinden explained. “And he hasn’t done anything else to screw us over, now, has he?” She paused. “Plus, Partha likes him.”

                “So your opinion changes about an Antivan Crow because your mabari likes him?”

                “Alistair said that Mabari are good judges of character,” Bralinden retorted. She felt embarrassed, like she was trying to explain to her mother why her hand was halfway in the cookie jar before supper. “And…he’s all right. If you don’t give people second chances, they can’t change, and grow.”

                “Wise words, my dear.”

                “Thank you. Occasionally I have smart thoughts. I’m not just muscle, after all.”

                “Hey, no! Bad hound!”

                Zevran’s voice rose over the small murmur of the camp. Bralinden was on her feet in an instant, shield in hand, rag in the other. She hurried to see what was amiss.

                Zevran had been pushed onto the ground while Partha sat on top of him. Partha wagged his stubby little tail happily as he held something in his jaws.

                “What’s going on here?” asked Bralinden. Zevran looked up from his spot on the floor.

                “You look so much taller from this angle!” he exclaimed. “Partha got a bit excited. He’s stolen my glove.”

                Sure enough, between his teeth, Bralinden saw leather that was suspiciously hand shaped. She tsked, and motioned for Partha to drop it. Her mabari complied and let it land on Zevran’s face with a wet slap.

                “C’mon, off him, you silly fur bag.” She scratched Partha’s ears to lessen her harsh tone. Partha seemed to sense that she wasn’t angry, and stepped off before he tried to chew the glove further. Bralinden extended her hand yet again, and Zevran used it to sit up. Zevran’s palm was warm and calloused, but not rough. Perhaps her hand lingered a little longer than she meant it to but her skin felt clammy and cold. It was grimy from dirt and blood. It seemed wrong to touch anyone with all the death and fear that clung to her fingertips.

                But Zevran smiled. “Thank you. Any moment later and he would have crushed the life out of me.” He grinned at Partha. “No hard feelings about the glove, my slobbery friend.”

                “I’ll get you a new pair,” Bralinden promised. “I swear.”

                And she did. It took a little while, but she did. Zevran had talked about a specific pair at one point and during the chaos, she had found it. The look on his face when she handed them to him was priceless.

* * *

                The first time they were comfortable enough to take comfort with one another had been after the battle of Redcliff. The waves upon waves of death were not new to Bralinden, but they weren’t any less frightening. It was not fear that drove her into Zevran’s arms, however, and he seemed to realize that.

                They had all politely declined to stay at Castle Redcliff, more comfortable staying in the camp they had made just outside the village. There was too much work to do, in so little time. They had successfully gathered two of the contracts. There were two to go and Bralinden was weary of the stress, and the strain.

                Zevran had proposed it. Bralinden had agreed, not thinking much about it. It didn’t last long, more frantic and desperate than anything, but afterward, Bralinden had to admit to herself that she felt a bit better.

                She could feel his eyes on her back as she slowly, delicately, started to pull her hair back up into its bun.

                “It is too bad that you do not wish to stay,” Zevran teased. “I’m told I’m very good at warding the nightmares away.”

                Bralinden frowned and turned to stare at him over her shoulder, still doing up her hair. “Perhaps. But people will talk.”

                “Ah, I see! We must keep up propriety.” He still grinned, eyes crinkled. Bralinden didn’t know whether to slug him or listen, and stay with him. “I hope you are open to doing this again, however.”

                “Of course,” Bralinden said, perhaps too quickly. She recovered. “In due time. We have much to deal with.”

                Zevran nodded at this and stretched before he reached to pull his shirt back on. It had gotten tossed aside in their tussle. “At your leave, always, Warden.”

                “Bralinden,” she replied. “You’ve seen my tits, for Stone’s sake. Might as well call me by my first name.”

                Zevran’s laughter made her smile. She made sure not to show it.

* * *

                Then the emotions set in. Real emotions that Bralinden could not bury down. They hit sometime after procuring the agreement from the Dalish clans. Bralinden was talking with Alistair, and how they were going to approach the last of the contracts. Bralinden was dreading it, in truth, but prayed to the ancestors that it didn’t show every time Alistair brought up the name.

                “You came from Orzammar, didn’t you?” Alistair asked. “They’re not fond of people who aren’t your height, to put it kindly.”

                “It will take some convincing to let us in,” replied Bralinden. She could hear Zevran’s laughter again from the campfire and for a moment she paused to look. Zevran’s smile was radiant as he nudged Morrigan about something. Bralinden felt a pang of jealousy. She wanted to be there, sitting next to him, listening to his jokes and his voice, hand in hers—

                “Oh,” she added helpfully. She blinked at the maps. “Oh.”

                “Oh?” Alistair echoed.

                For a moment, panic seized Bralinden. Emotions spiked, making her heart stop. This isn’t allowed, she thought. You’re an Aeducan. You have traditions to uphold.

                Then she remembered that she was no longer Princess Bralinden Aeducan, daughter of King Endrin Aeducan.

                She was just Bralinden. A Grey Warden. Nothing more. She wasn’t sure if that was comforting, or terrifying. No limits. For once, she could do what she wanted.

                What did she want?

                “Bralinden?”

                A hand reached across the table and Alistair awkwardly wiped a tear that was trailing its way down Bralinden’s cheek. She gave a start, and pulled back like she had been burned.

                “Bralinden, what’s wrong?” he asked.

                “I…” She trailed off. She could tell that the talking had hushed around the campfire. Bralinden found herself getting to her feet. She needed to get away. Far away. From everyone. From everything.

                “I need to go,” she muttered before she hurried from the boundaries of the camp. “I’ll be back but, I need a moment.”

                “Yes, of course,” Alistair began to say, but she was already gone. Bralinden found the safety of some trees and shrubbery, the one place where the light was blocked away and she couldn’t see the sky. She dry heaved, trying to take a moment to collect herself. A minute or two passed, or maybe an hour. She wasn’t sure. Bralinden just focused on breathing in, and breathing out.

                “This is pathetic,” she muttered aloud after she had mostly composed herself. “You’re going to bury it. You’re going to bury all of it. You’re Bralinden Aeducan, of Orzammar. A Grey Warden. You have a task to uphold.”

                She took another moment to breathe and straightened. She rubbed her face.

                “Then, you will deal with this later,” she told herself. “After everything’s done.

                When she came back to camp, she refused to make eye contact. A few tried to ask what was wrong, but she waved her hand, and gave a small white lie, saying that she was tired, or she was worried.

                A hand fell on her shoulder. She looked up, and Zevran looked back at her.

                “Are you all right?” he asked.

                “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just needed a few moments.”

                He won’t know, she thought. I won’t tell him. He won’t know.

* * *

                Bralinden kept that promise to herself all throughout Orzammar. Even as her people, who once looked on her fondly, spat at her and cursed her, she kept that promise.    He could feel him gazing at her, like a puzzle he didn’t understand yet. Bralinden offered no help figuring it out, hoping that it was better. Bralinden, however, could feel her resolve wavering. Her brother sat on the throne after their father. They had gathered the treaties and had to head to Redcliff. This whole mess was coming to an end.

                Didn’t she, of all people deserve to indulge a little? Bralinden was starting to think so.

                It was also after Orzammar that Zevran gave Bralinden an earring. Their times together became fewer and fewer, whether it was because the group was always on the move. They had a few more members in their party now, and she had her hands full trying to keep everyone calm, collected, and out of trouble. Their moments alone together were brief.

                And Bralinden wasn’t sure, but Zevran seemed to be pulling away from her. For the first time, he actually turned a chance down. Braliden wondered if she wasn’t as good as she thought she was. He had seemed happy enough before, and she had grown to love him. Did he not feel the same? Was she really that bad at reading people? After all, her own brother betrayed her and she didn’t dare believe it until it was too late. Bralinden wondered if she had somehow messed up yet again.

                 Then he presented her with a gift.

                “I wanted to give this to you,” he said. Bralinden held the golden earring in her palm, puzzled by the gift. The gifts she had given him had always made sense—the new pair of gloves, a pair of boots from his homeland, gold—and he rarely gave physical gifts in return. When he did, it was often something practical, like money in return, or a new piece of armor he thought would fit her.

                “I…don't have pierced ears?” she replied. Her fingers closed around the earring. It felt warm and heavy in her hand, like a promise she didn’t quite understand. She glanced up at him shyly, and he wouldn’t meet her eye. She hurriedly amended her statement, fearing that she had somehow offended him. “But—I thank you. I will treasure it, always.” She dug through her bag and found a piece of string, tied the earring around it, and then slipped it around her neck. Bralinden tried not to think about how it was about the size of a ring for her. “Zevran?”

                He finally looked at her, with an expression she didn’t understand.

                “Thank you.”

                He smiled, just a little. That was something.

                I’ll tell him, she promised. I’ll tell him that I love him.

* * *

                It was harder to for Bralinden to find the courage to tell Zevran how she felt than it was to beat enemies bloody. Weary in an alleyway, Zevran’s old companions dead at their feet, Zevran turned his gaze to Bralinden, a fearful look in his eyes. This is what she got, Bralinden mused, for wandering alone in the city. Even at home in Orzammar she had Gorim with her. They were bloody and bruised but they had been dealt worse by men and darkspawn.

                “Are you all right?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. Bralinden dropped her sword in the mud and ran to him, crossing the alley in a few strides, before she crushed him in an embrace.

                “You bastard,” she muttered. She had to stand on her toes to kiss him. He froze for a moment before he returned it. When she pulled back, she gently hit his chest. “You stupid bastard.”

                He didn’t reply but his hands shook as he held onto her, like she was all he ever wanted. Bralinden couldn’t tell him yet. She hoped he understood as she led him back to the keep, where it was safe, and tended to his wounds. He tended to hers as well, and they laid together in silence in a bed with their hands intertwined. They partook in nothing except sleeping, and careful glances to make sure that the other was still there.

                Tell him, she thought, until it becomes too late.

* * *

                “I love you,” Bralinden said, as the city burned around them. They had such short time, but Bralinden found her courage. She stared Zevran straight in the eyes as she told him, her split lip aching from the fight to get where they were. “I love you, Zevran. Never forget that.”

                “Cruel to the end,” Zevran said, almost teasingly, but there was pain in his eyes. Bralinden heard Alistair shout for her to hurry, that they needed to go. “Go, my love. Go save the world.”

                Bralinden nodded. She tightened her grip on her shield, and drew her sword.

                I will return to you, she promised silently as she looked over her shoulder. Zevran shared a longing glance her way as they ran in different directions. Either in this life, or the next.

                Zevran seemed to nod. He understood.


	6. The Newest Additions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, promises can't be kept, but that doesn't mean that Bralinden and Zevran don't try. What's more important is that they're there for each other in the end.
> 
> Or: Bralinden goes through childbirth.

                Bralinden’s water broke in the middle of a council meeting, much to her horror. She was sitting against Alistair’s right, arguing with a nobleman over petty land disputes, when Alistair—and a good majority of the chamber—heard a splash. Bralinden’s eyebrows raised, mildly surprised as silence fell over the gentlemen and ladies seated before them.

                Alistair looked like at a loss for words, staring at her. His gaze trailed downward for a moment before he turned a light pink, and opened his mouth to speak.

                Braliden cut him off. As politely as she could muster, she asked, “Could someone get me a damned midwife?” before she rose from her seat and tried to escort herself from the chair and out of the room to save herself any further embarrassment. One hand steadied herself on the chair, and the other grasped at her swollen belly.

                “Council adjourned!” Alistair exclaimed. He took her arm without asking, but Bralinden didn’t mind. He tried to hurry her away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you all right?”

                “Shit, shit, Ancestor’s tits,” Bralinden muttered under her breath. “I was supposed to have another week at least! What’s the rush?”

                Zevran wasn’t there. He was heading home from Antiva by ship. He was supposed to be in time for the birth of their child if they had done the calculations right. He was supposed to be home within the next day or so, but he wasn’t here because their child decided to come early.

                Bralinden had tried to prepare for the birth of her children the moment she discovered that she was, in fact, pregnant. It had come as a surprise to both her and Zevran. They had not discussed the prospect of starting a family. Bralinden, in truth, had been anxious about the idea. The last time she had been part of a family that was bound by blood, one wound up dead and the other stabbed her in the back. She didn’t think her children would be that crazy, by extent, but the fact that there were children that she would be responseible—that they would be responsible for—had made her worry.

                “Do you not want it?” Zevran had asked her, taking her hands in his. His voice was low, soft, and sad when she had expressed her fears. “I will not make you carry a child you do not want.”

                “No—that’s not it.” Bralinden squeezed his hands and tried to smile. It came out more as a grimace. “I’m just…I’m nervous, Zev. That’s all.”

                Zevran leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Then his hands trailed to rest on her belly. She put her hands over his, and she sighed.

                “We can do this,” he promised her. “We shall do it together.”

                We can’t do it together if you’re not here! Bralinden thought. Alistair helped her to her quarters. “Alistair, send word to the docks. See if Zevran’s ship has come in.”

                “Bralinden, we need to call a midwife,” Alistair replied. He gestured at a few maids and ladies-in-waiting, who hurried to prepare the bed. As soon as it was set and made up, he helped Bralinden sit down. Bralinden was already out of breath as the maids began to help her out of her clothes.

                “Yes, yes, I know, but I want you to send a messenger to wait.” She grabbed his wrist, bruisingly tight. “Please, Alistair.”

                Alistair’s stern façade crumbled. “Yes, of course I will. What do you need?”

                “Will you stay?” Bralinden asked. “Until Zevran gets here?”

                “Of course. Miss—yes, you there. I need you to fetch a midwife, and I need you to send a messenger for the docks…”

                Bralinden went into labor shortly after. The midwife arrived later than she would have preferred. The midwife was a stout dwarven woman from the market district, with a soft beard, hard lines stretched across her face, and a commanding presence. Bralinden had picked her out specifically to deliver her baby. She had a preference to deliver dwarven children, with the most experience out of all the midwives Bralinden had spoken with (she was determined to know the one that would be pulling her baby into the world). Alistair seemed tense, tenser than anyone else in the room, and he looked like he was ready to shout at the poor woman, except Bralinden was already giving wordless shouts of surprise and pain.

                “Lay back, my dear,” the midwife instructed. She held something up in her hand, a small bottle. “I have a poultice for the pain.”

                “No,” Bralinden replied through gritted teeth. “Absolutely not.”

                Then the midwife turned to Alistair and gave him the most critical eye Bralinden had ever seen. “You’re not the father. You should probably go, your grace. To give her ladyship some privacy.”

                Thinking how there was no way that something private was left between the two, Alistair replied, “Why?”

                The midwife opened her mouth to speak, but Bralinden barked, “He stays!” as her hands knotted into the sheets. Her knuckles were going white and she focused on her breathing. “Th—the father’s not here yet. He will be soon.”

                The midwife glanced at Alistair and then back to Bralinden. “Very well.”

                Bralinden pulled one hand painstakingly from the sheets and held it out to Alistair.

                “Please,” she asked. Alistair took it in a firm grip and sat down next to her. “Thank you.”

                “He’ll be here,” Alistair replied after a moment’s thought. “I know he’ll be. It’ll take a miracle but we seem to run with those, don’t we?”

                Bralinden nearly crushed Alistair’s hand as she braced herself, and the labor was long and painful. She tried not to think about how the midwife began to fret around the eighth hour. Alistair talked to her about random things, tried to remind her to breathe, but Bralinden wasn’t really listening. She stared straight ahead and grit her teeth, face going red until progress was made. Occasionally a rag came forth to wipe the sweat from her brow, and the tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

                “It’s okay,” people told her. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just a bit longer.”

                She tried to pretend it was Zevran telling her, whispering to her, holding her hand.

                The boy was born around dawn. He had his father’s mischevious eyes and his mother’s stout pout.

                The girl was born an hour later. She was round like a little boulder but had little points on her ears.

                They were both perfect. Bralinden decided that the moment she saw them, in the crook of Alistair’s arms. He nearly cried as he eased into the chair next to her. Bralinden stared, incredulous, as the two shifted against his doublet. Their faces scrunched up with Bralinden’s familiar pout.

                “Two?” Bralinden finally asked, gently being eased to lie back on the bed. The midwife gave her some water and she was too exhausted to argue as she gulped it down. The babes were squirming already in Alistair’s arms and Bralinden held out hers to take them. He nestled both of them with her. Like tiny, unhappy raisins, they sat nestled against her bosom. Bralinden was overwhelmed, eyes wide and lips slightly parted as she glanced back and forth between the newest members of her family. The babes decided it was a perfect time to tuck into an early morning meal.

                The nurses moved around them, cleaning up the mess of childbirth. Bralinden would have to be bathed soon, but the children were cleaned up and looking comfortable. The two friends stared at the infants in awed silence.

                Then, in the softest voice, Bralinden whispered, “Oh, aren’t they wonderful?”

                “They are,” Alistair whispered back. He settled on the corner of the bed, gazing at them. “Zevran will be so pleased. They look just like him!”

                Bralinden sighed at this and closed her eyes for a brief moment. Her shoulders sagged but she hugged the twins tighter.

                “He was supposed to be here,” she muttered. “I had at least a week, according to the healers. He was going to make it. He promised. He was going to be on time, I just know it…” She sighed. “I wish he had been. It’s…okay that he’s not.” As she said it aloud, it was like a knot had been undone in her chest. She sighed. “But I wish he had been here.”

                Alistair reached out and gently brushed some sweat-soaked hair from her face. “Well, when he comes home, he’ll get to meet the little bundles of joy, won’t he? He’ll be so surprised to find not one, but two!” As he spoke he reached over and bopping each of the little one’s noses. The girl stopped sucking and nuzzled against her mother, but the boy seemed unbothered by it. “Won’t that be a surprise?”

                Bralinden gave him a tired smile. “It will be, won’t it? I hope he doesn’t mind.”

                “Please. He’ll be overjoyed, Bralinden.”

                After Bralinden rested a little and was cleaned up, Alistair had her and the babes moved to his royal chambers. They were some of the best-defended rooms in the castle and it seemed wise, for safety’s sake. Bralinden refused to put the babes into a crib throughout the entire transition and snuggled under the covers of Alistair's large bed. The babes remained clasped in her arms and took the hint that it was time to sleep, and drifted off quickly.

                “Promise me, as soon as he’s here, you’ll bring him to me?” Bralinden asked. She was exhausted, but she knew she could not fight off sleep. She just prayed for no nightmares.

                “Of course,” Alistair promised.

* * *

                The moment Zevran stepped down from the gangplank of the ship, he sensed that something was wrong. Maybe it was the way the ship docked unsteadily, or how the mission itself had been more harrowing than he had expected. He was surprised that Bralinden was not there to meet him, but he figured that nowadays she was probably tremendously heavy. To make her way all the way down from the castle would have been a feat that she could have easily accomplished, but it was possible that she was feeling under the weather with the baby to be born so soon.

                Then he saw the messenger, a scrawny looking young man who was frantically searching the people who came from the ships. Once he saw him, he waved frantically. Zevran recognized him as one of the runners from the palace. “Ah—Master Zevran! Master Zevran, do you remember me? I’ve been sent to collect you, by his majesty Lord Alistair Theirin and Chancellor Aeducan—!”

                “Hello, it is good to see a friendly face!” Zevran replied, making his way to the boy. “How nice of them to send someone to greet me.”

                “Th-there isn’t much time for pleasantries, sir! M’lady Aeducan, she went into labor some time ago! The baby’s going to be born and I’m supposed to bring you to the palace at once—”

                For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they registered all too quickly, and Zevran wanted to be sick. “What?” he asked, his voice cracking before he pushed the boy aside and hurried down the docks.

                It was the fastest Zevran had run in his life. He could make it across the city in record time if he pushed himself. He pushed himself more than he probably should have but to see the surprise of the guards as he roared through the gates and towards Bralinden’s rooms were priceless. He would have to try and recreate the expression for Bralinden later.

                He hurried up a flight of stairs, and then another, and burst into Bralinden’s rooms, startling the maids there.

                “Where is she?” Zevran asked, looking towards the bed. He paled when he saw it was empty, the sheets stripped, and no sign of a crib or a child. “Where—where is Braliden? Where is she?”

                A pretty elven maid hurried over to him. She was a favorite of Bralinden’s, one Bralinden had picked out personally. “She’s with the king, at his quarters. They agreed it was safer for her to remain there until you arrived—”

                Zevran didn’t wait for her to finish, hearing her call something after him but not registering what she had said. Alistair’s room wasn’t too far, and guards were posted at the door. He stopped for a moment, gasping for breath. They recognized him and let him.

                Zevran reached the bedroom door and pushed it open without a second thought. An oddly shiny, ornamental blade swung down in front of him. Zevran stopped in his tracks, skidding to a stop, as Alistair, king of Ferelden, had tried to cleave off his head with a decorative saber.

                “Who goes there?” Alistair barked.

                “Alistair, it’s me! It’s just me!” Zevran adjusted their armor, tearing off the mask he forgot he had been wearing. It must have fallen down during his dead sprint, he reasoned, masking his face.

                “What—Zevran? You’re here!” Alistair exclaimed. “We weren’t sure if your ship was coming in for another day or not.”

                “I know, I know, but—I heard as soon as I made it to the docks. Is she okay? The child?” Zevran frantically searched the rooms. “I checked her rooms first, but she was not there—they said she was here, Alistair, where—”

                “Keep it down, she’s safe. She’s resting,” Alistair said quickly, gesturing towards the bed. The curtains were drawn around it, just a little crack near the head of the bed open to let some light in. Alistair withdrew his sword and ushered Zevran in. “I brought her here after the whole birthing process. I thought it was safer, more guarded, in case…I don’t know. People can be cruel. Plus, it was cleaner. Childbirth is messy.”

                “So she had the baby?” Zevran repeated, crestfallen. “I missed it. I was supposed to be here. I wasn’t—I promised her. I promised her that I would be here for her.” He glanced at Alistair. “Thank you for taking care of her, while I was away.”

                “Hey, hey,” Alistair replied and placed a hand on Zevran’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I love her too, and I was going to help whether you were here or not. She’s not angry with you. She wished that you were here, yes, but—you’re here now. And you’re here to stay.”

                Zevran sighed and nodded. Alistair, however, was not done.

                “Besides, you two were supposed to have at least another week. It’s not your fault the twins decided to come early—”

                Zevran wondered if he had heard right. His heart began to beat faster. Two? He wondered. Two, and I wasn’t here to see it? Wasn’t here to hold her hand?

"Did you say twins?"

                Alistair sucked in a breath and looked at the ceiling. “Twins? No, you misheard! I said the tw…tweedle dee decided to come early. It’s Grey Warden slang for children, you see—”

                Zevran pushed past Alistair and hurried to the bed. Alistair, exasperated but smiling, followed after him.

                Zevran paused before he opened the curtain. “She’s resting?”

                “Well, she was in labor for a long time. I think she kind of earned the rest, don’t you?”

                Zevran’s hand tightened on the crimson fabric. “I…should let her rest. It’s my fault for not being here on time.”

                “Nonsense, wake her up. C’mon. I’ll even do it for you so you don’t have to brave the wrath of a sleep-deprived mother.” Alistair gently swatted Zevran’s hand from the curtain and pulled them away, allowing more light to spill into the darkened bed.

                Bralinden was fast asleep. Her hair was cast across the pillows, crumpled and tangled. She had a peaceful expression on her face, which was rare. Zevran always saw her with a concerned look or a furrowed brow. She never seemed to sleep well.

                Then Zevran saw the children curled up against her, equally tuckered out. Their faces twitched at the sudden disturbance but she didn’t wake. The babies were unaware of everything around them except the warmth of their mother’s arms.

                They all looked so peaceful. Zevran hated to wake them.

                Alistair reached over and gently shook Bralinden awake. She grumbled and squinted at the light being cast in.

                “What?” she asked, voice muddled with sleep. Her voice was rough and raw. “What’s wrong?”   

                “Nothing’s wrong,” Alistair assured her. “It’s just that you have a visitor.”

                Bralinden squinted, eyes almost closed before they opened a little wider. She stared past Alistair’s shoulder, and her voice broke. “Zevran?”

                Zevran knew that was his cue as he pushed past Alistair and crawled onto the bed. He kicked off his boots as to not track mud in. “Hello, my love,” he murmured. Alistair scooted out of the way and gathered up the boots as Zevran sat down next to Bralinden. She went to sit up but he tutted, shaking his head. “No, you don’t have to do that. You look exhausted.”

                “I am exhausted,” Bralinden mumbled, staring at him. She let one of the twins rest on her chest as she reached out and gently brushed her knuckles against Zevran’s cheek. “I must be dreaming. You’re here.”

                Zevran’s heart broke but he chuckled, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips, and then her palm. “I came as soon as I could, my love. I…I am so sorry, I should have been here. I promised you.”

                “S’okay. You’re here now.”

                Alistair tried not to intrude and stepped back further from the bed. “I’ll make sure someone brings food for you, okay? You must be starving.”

                Zevran did not respond spare a nod. Bralinden was beginning to slip back into sleep, the circles under her eyes dark.

                “Zevran?” she asked again.

                “I’m here, my love,” Zevran replied. He laid down next to her. One of the babies—the girl, Zevran quickly gathered—began to sniffle and fuss. Zevran scooped her up and cradled her, careful not to nudge her with any of his armor, propped up awkwardly on one elbow. “I’m here.”

                Bralinden smiled wearily. “I’m glad that you’re here now. They were in a hurry to meet their mother.”

                “Well, I am certainly glad they are here. I raced to meet them, too. Across the entire city.”

                Bralinden smiled. “I believe it, my love.” She reached out a hand and pulled him into a slow, sleepy kiss. “Watch over them. I need some rest.”

                “Of course,” Zevran breathed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and let her settle back against the pillows. Within minutes, she was asleep, and Zevran was alone with his newborn children.

                He wasn’t quite sure what to say at first. He gently bounced the little girl in his arms.

                “Hello, little ones,” Zevran finally said. The baby in Zevran’s arms grumbled. She wrinkled her nose, almost squinting at him the same way her mother had. He reached out with his other hand and petted the soft tuft of brown hair on top of his son’s head. “I’m your father. I promise that I will never, ever be late to meet you and your mother again.”


	7. A Modest Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bralinden and Zevran have been loyal to one another once they realized what they meant to each other. Bralinden decides to act accordingly.
> 
> August 6: Commitment

                The ring was small and a bit lumpy, cast in silver with a small band of black gold running through the middle like a vein. There were little carvings in it, etchings that Bralinden painstakingly put in with the finest of picks. Bralinden was no smith but she made due. The books in the royal library had served as good tutors, and people never recognized her when she put on plain clothes and headed to the market district early in the morning covered with soot and trotting about in muddy boots. She had been so proud of it, even if it was imperfect. There had been finer rings crafted everywhere by her hands but Bralinden knew that this ring was the only one she could present.

                _I’ll give it to him when he returns home,_ she thought to herself, feeling the weight in her pocket. _When he returns to me._

                She wasn’t sure how long that would be. Bralinden knew that she and Zevran could not stay together—at least not physically—all the time. At one point in her life, Bralinden had imagined that the person she would come to love and marry would be inseparable. She would have ruled over a household underneath her brother with a command of her own. She’d possibly bear children for them, and she would travel with her company when she wasn’t. She would always return home to a house that was stable, rooted in the ground. A place she could picture in her mind even on the darkest days, but confidently call it home.

                Then she met Zevran, and all those expectations changed. Home became a person during the Blight and remained as such afterwards. He was somewhere where she felt safe, protected, and loved, but they both had their separate duties to attend to. They spoke about settling down, one day, but there was so much to do with so little time that it was quickly pushed to the side.

                She did not weep when he left for Antiva. Instead she threw herself into her work in Denerim. When the Grey Wardens insisted that she relocated to Vigil’s Keep, she sent Zevran a letter telling her that she was going away, and threw herself into work again and again. She was going to ask him when he came home to her, but they always seemed to miss each other, or she would forget. When he came she forgot all her worries, being whisked away by loving touches, gentle words, and bright eyes. Every time they had to part ways again, one of them would whisper, “Wait for me. I promise I will come back to you,” or shout it from the dock to the ships, or from out the window to the road. Bralinden hid the ring away in a box while he was there, and after he left she would put it on the chain that held the earring he had given her all those years ago. For a time, she thought they had all the time in the world, and one another.

                After the twins were born, however, Bralinden began to slow. She felt something stirring in her bones and blood. Zevran stopped traveling now that their small family had doubled in size. He would help change them, feed them, clothe them, and care for them. He would sing them songs in his mother tongue and dance around the chambers. The morning Bralinden remembered about the ring hidden underneath her blouse, he winked at Bralinden as he told the twins in his arms about a bawdy sailor and her young love ran away and sailed the seas.

                “Hey, don’t start that with them,” Bralinden had complained, but Zevran kissed her cheek.

                “They don’t know what it means, mi amor. I’ll sing kinder songs when they’re older, I swear it.”

                Bralinden scoffed, and felt the cold weight rest just above her heart. She frowned for a moment as their little girl cooed.

                “Zevran?”

                “Yes, my love?”

                “I want to do something fun this afternoon. Will you watch the children while I get it organized? I know it’s a bit short notice…”

                Zevran smiled at her. “Of course! We shall continue to sing, dance, and make merry while you are away.” He gazed down at the children in his arms. They had grown now, no longer the sizes of loafs of bread. One of them tentatively reached out and grabbed a braid in Zevran’s hair. “Ah yes, my dear. I will even braid your hair! When you have enough to braid, of course.”

* * *

                Zevran had never thought much of marriage. Growing up in a whore house and then being sold to the Crows, it seemed somewhat unobtainable. If he ever found someone he would be willing to wed and spend the rest of his life with, he knew they would be in constant danger. That was trouble that he didn’t want to put on anyone’s shoulders, and after the entire debacle with Taliesen and Rinna, he was almost confident that the day would never come.

                Then he met Bralinden, and that thought slowly began to change. She could certainly take care of herself—and him, if need be. A hero of the Fifth Blight, a skilled warrior who could slaughter people in droves but instead preferred to try and win them with words, first.

                He wanted to marry her but he could not bring himself to ask her. Before the final battle in Denerim, he gave her his earring. He hoped—prayed, even—that she understood its meaning one day.

                Now they were nearly five years older, with children. The babies took after both of them and Zevran could already see the makings of brilliant little ones that could follow in their parents’ footsteps if they wished it. Bralinden seemed more at ease now, too. She smiled more often, and much easier in past days. Even though her hair was starting to grey with fever she started to look younger, and happier.

                They did better when they were together, he decided.

                That’s how he found himself on the outskirts of Denerim, basking in the aftermath of Bralinden’s surprise. They had slipped the guards with Zevran carrying the basket and Bralinden the children, but they were close enough to the walls that if it was dangerous they could easily retreat back to the gates. The children were fast asleep in their bassinets underneath a thick-trunked apple tree, almost holding hands. Plates and dishes were scattered about on the blanket Bralinden had spread, empty of the food she had gathered from the kitchen. Zevran and she ate to their heart’s content. He was content to doze underneath the leaves but Bralinden, for some reason, was digging through the picnic basket yet again.

                “More food?” he asked. “Bralinden, I could not possibly eat another bite.”

                “It’s not food,” replied Bralinden, cheeks reddening. “It’s…it’s a gift. For you.”

                Zevran arched an eyebrow, surprised to see Bralinden so flustered. He glanced about, and wondered why she had picked such a secluded place. “Bralinden—while I am flattered, are you sure that _here_ is the best place to…?”

                Bralinden paused, and turned, holding a small pouch in her hand. The light fell on her in such a way it looked like she was glowing. “What? No, love, no. That’s not what I had in mind.” She paused. “Maybe later.”

                Zevran pointedly looked at the bag. “Then what is this lovely surprise you have for me? I cannot wait to see what it is.”

                Bralinden crawled back from the basket and gestured for him to hold out his hand. “Close your eyes. Just for a moment, love.”

                Zevran did as he was told, and held out his hand. Something cold fell into his palm and Bralinden closed his hands around it.

                “Okay, now you can open them.

                The ring in his hand was small. It was clumsily made, Zevran noticed, but he could see the time and care that had been put into it. It looked old as well, with scuff marks and other sorts of decals that only appeared with age.

                Bralinden had gone pale, and she worried her lower lip.

                “It’s beautiful my love. Where did you get it?”

                “Didn’t get it anywhere,” Bralinden replied. “I made it.”

                “Ah, that explains the fine craftsmanship.”

                Bralinden blushed harder. “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing…it’s nothing fancy, I know. But…”

                “I love it,” Zevran replied. He slipped it onto his finger. It was snug, but it wouldn’t cut circulation. He’d learn to fight with it, too. “It’s beautiful. What’s the occasion, my dear?”

                “I wanted…to ask…” Bralinden uncharacteristically paused, choosing her words carefully. “Just…give me a moment. Trying to work up the nerve.”

                For a moment Zevran’s heart stopped. He worried, that just for a moment, she was going to say something foolish to break his heart. Then she looked at him, with love in her eyes, and Zevran realized that would never be the problem. She wouldn’t.

                “Take your time,” Zevran replied. He leaned forward and kissed her. After a moment, Zevran carded his fingers through her loose hair. He knew what the ring meant, but wanted to hear her say it, if she could. He pulled back and they rested their foreheads together. “We have time. They won’t expect us back at the palace for another hour, at least.”

                “Hopefully it won’t take that long,” she replied. “The babies will wake and I won’t be able to say what I’m thinking.” She took his hands. “Zevran. Marry me? You gave me a ring years ago. I never responded in kind. Maybe I misinterpreted it then but…now that’s what it means. Right? And I wanted to respond in kind. I had it, since you left for Antiva for the first time and I watched from the walls. I made it for you, to give it to you, but…I was sure it was going to scare you away, or something would happen.”

                She took a deep breath.

                “But now you’re here. Our duties are shifting. The kingdom’s running its way, the Crows are fading, the Grey Wardens are stronger and don’t need someone shouldering them anymore.” She turned and gazed towards the bassenets where their children set. “I want to do right by them. I know marriage isn’t mandatory for us to be good parents, but I think it would be nice if they could turn to their friends and enemies and claim to be both Aeducan and Arianai—”

                “Yes,” Zevran replied. “Yes, of course.” He kissed her once, and then again, and then a third time. Bralinden squeaked but wrapped her arms around his neck. “A thousand times yes. A million.” He drew her as close as he could, peppering her with affection. “We’ll get married at once.”

                Zevran felt Bralinden smile against him.

                “For the many years to come. Times may change, but we do not, no?”


End file.
